The Case Of The Goose
by ImpossibleGirlOnTheMoon
Summary: Presented with a new challenge, Sherlock Holmes must battle the usual oddities. A curious murder, a cryptic lead, and why there is never any milk in 221b Baker Street.
1. The Beginning

**My very first story here on . I previously published the first three chapters of this to DeviantArt, but here is the first one! I decided to publish here in the hope of a wider audience, I suppose. XD  
>And reviews? Please!<strong>

**Heh. Anywho, I might publish the other two later, and then continue the story. :D If I like it. I haven't decided whether I do or not at the moment, see.**

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><p><em><span>Chapter One - The Beginning<span>_

"Why is there never any milk?"

John Watson's complaint was partly muffled by the slam of the fridge door. Their almost constant lack of milk was beginning to grow quite the annoying regularity. And it more than puzzled him as to where, exactly, it all went.

But it wasn't as though he was likely to find out.

After all, due to the predictable nature of some of Sherlock's 'experiments', he thought it probably best to not know.

After a fairly disappointing root around in the kitchen cupboards (all he found was a very-nearly-empty packet of twiglets, a box of cornflakes far past the use-by date and a tub full of some substance he would rather not identify), John settled into the sofa with a sigh. Sherlock, who had up until then been sat wordlessly burying his nose into some sort of book (it seemed the cover was ridiculously defaced), glanced at the doctor over slightly-yellowed pages.

"Did you hear that?" The doctor asked, eyes slightly narrowed as Sherlock began to look around the room, his main focus point being the window. Of course, it was silly for John to even presume that his flatmate would be talking about his previous question. Sherlock Holmes had an awful tendency to ignore most things anyone, but himself, said.

Holmes did not take any notice to the other man's resulting eye roll as he positively leapt from the armchair, and almost sprinted to the closed window. John, almost subconsciously, noted that they were in dire need of cleaning. Until he realised what he'd just thought, and couldn't help but frown at himself.

He chose not to follow Sherlock, however, figuring that within a couple of seconds he would figure out just what exactly the man had heard. And, soon enough, after a quick glance out of the barely transparent glass, the detective was bounding around the flat like a happy fawn. John couldn't help but be reminded of Bambi as he watched, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"Oh, yes! Yes, yes yes! Brilliant!"

John could only just hold in a snigger, and it was lucky that Sherlock wasn't currently paying attention, so his smile could be mistaken for one of mutual excitement.

"Three weeks! Three weeks of nothing, John! And now, see! I knew something would come along. I just knew it..." Beginning to mumble to himself, Holmes threw John his jacket from the coatstand, grinning like a cheshire cat as he waited for the doctor to ask. And he even opened his mouth to do just that, though it was only for Sherlock's benefit (as he already knew what the answer would be). The words would have escaped his mouth, too, if the interruption had been just a few seconds later.

Only of course there was no longer any need to ask, as Detective Inspector Lestrade strolled through the empty doorway.


	2. The Scene

**So, after realising just how... short the first chapter is (oh noes, I swear it looked much longer on DeviantArt), I've decided to post chapter two! Yay!**

**This one's rather short also. I promise that after the third one (which is also already written and waiting on my laptop), I will (hopefully) make any new chapters I write much longer. :D**

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><p><em><span>Chapter Two - The Scene<span>_

Standing rather awkwardly next to Lestrade, John watched Sherlock in an air of awe. He always found the 'world's only consulting detective's' way of deduction rather fascinating.

Lestrade, on the other hand, didn't seem to be particularly amused.

But perhaps that was because of the unlimited amount of abuse he was now suffering from the force due to his friendliness to Sherlock. If it could be counted as that. And even this, it could be noticed even by the doctor, seemed to be slightly fading the more irritating the detective became to anyone around. Which was unmeasurable, really.

John vaguely began to wonder whether he agitated people on purpose, as he watched the man inspect the body lay before them. He suspected that it couldn't really be helped. After all, Sherlock Holmes had the ability to deduce the entire life story of a person within four minutes and thirty-six seconds (depending on the weather, of course), but it was unexplainably amusing how much his social skills resembled those of a five year old.

It seemed that there were no lines at all between respectable and not for Sherlock. And he proved this, by subsequently standing up with a proclamation.

"You're stupid. How could you miss it?"

For not the first time, John wondered just how exactly both him and the Detective Inspector put up with Sherlock. Of course the doctor was able to find both very little, but very many answers at the same time. A fact which rather confused him.

"Miss what, exactly?" The tone in Lestrade's voice contained a hint of exhaustion, not considered unusual when around Sherlock. John noticed his subtle eye-roll, and couldn't help but smirk, just a little. Because sometimes he found these situations awfully amusing.

Sherlock, on the other hand, shot Lestrade a look of almost-disgust. One that would be worthy of giving a man who had done something ridiculously idiotic, like dribble on his shirt.

"It's not a suicide, like you were going to suggest." He said, quite slowly, as if Lestrade wouldn't know what he was talking about. It was definitely deliberate, John noticed. Definitely. Wasn't it? After all it wasn't unlike Sherlock to think of everyone but him as idiots.

The ex-army doctor once more broke away from his thoughts to Lestrade's reaction, which was quite unexpected.

"I know it's not a suicide, Sherlock. We did figure out that." The tone of voice used was certainly odd. As if Lestrade was internally cursing Sherlock for suggesting their lack of usefulness at a crime scene. _Their_ crime scene, actually. And the DI had only called to Sherlock due to the slight... deja vu feel to the situation.

"Then how do you explain the note?" Holmes questioned, quite obviously unable to suppress a highly amused smirk. John glanced toward what Sherlock was pointing to with one long finger, and tilted his head to the side in thought. Obviously Lestrade had made a point to contact the consulting detective before thoroughly examining the body, as it was something they were sure to have seen.

The woman was in her late twenties, and was dressed in rather plain clothing, consisting of light greys, a style extremely odd for the weather. Her hair rested just past her shoulders, chestnut brown in colour. And then, of course, there was the obvious signs of her death. Bruises on her neck were tell-tale marks of strangulation. As this was the only currently obvious signs, he presumed that this was the cause of death. There was no bag around the body, so the doctor presumed that any posessions on her person were contained within the pockets of her coat.

Sherlock had obviously inspected the contents of the woman's pockets, and replaced them in the exact position, as usual. The only thing he had left out of it's original place was a once-neatly folded piece of paper. The writing on it was easily readable even from where John was stood.

_My mind has reached the point where I cannot wait any longer - I dare not wait longer - for the time. I know that it is coming and leave this note in the hope of an understanding._

_AA,LSA - SW4 7BX - 25_  
><em>7-22-9-0-13, 5-4-8-8-20<em>

_~ Jessica_

It was definitely a suicide note, John could figure out that much. But he guessed that the numbers weren't just random, but deliberate. A code, perhaps?

But why would someone write in code if they were about to die anyway?

And then, of course, it was a murder, not a suicide, so why was there a note?

All of the unsettled thoughts roaming around in his head caused him to wonder how Sherlock dealt with all of the information. And then, obviously, he remembered. Sherlock Holmes. _The_ Sherlock Holmes. And enough was said (or thought, really).

When John began to pay attention to the current reality once more, he noticed that Sherlock and Lestrade had apparently been talking about something or other. He guiltily glanced between the two, noticing the awkward feeling return. But Lestrade was busy with his own internal pondering now, staring idly at the body of Jessica, whilst Sherlock was apparently searching on his phone for something unknown to John, like the usual routine. Once he noticed that John was now paying attention, however, Sherlock chose to stride out of the door in a manner of importance, leaving the scene with a simple swish of his coat.

And also leaving John, as usual, with a certain lack of understanding.

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><p><strong>Bleh. They always look longer on DA. -_-<strong>

**Anywho, whoever can work out what the last part of the letter means (or even just _7-22-9-0-13, 5-4-8-8-20_), they'll get a biscuit! :D**

**CLUE: It's a cipher. *Nod***


End file.
